Even without the sensory clues, he was aware of the woman’s presence. He had felt her arrival.
She stood the length of two deck chairs away, her stance nearly a replica of his, her forearms resting on the ship’s rail as she gazed out at the dancing waters. A ridiculously flamboyant Gainsborough hat was pinned securely over her spilling flaxen curls. The stiff breeze had spun out a few strands so that they tossed like loose ribbons around her shoulders. She was tall and slender, her figure enhanced by the narrow cut of her suit, the fitted jacket, long waistline, draped apron and green-striped fabric all obviously chosen to draw a man’s appreciative eye.
She sighed with obvious pleasure when the ship pulled away from the dock.
Her eyes were closed when she lifted her face toward the bay breeze. Bright, wind-whipped color touched her cheeks, her lips parted as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss. She breathed deeply a moment, savoring the taste of the air. And with her action, his interest was further pricked.
It had been weeks since he’d indulged his carnal appe-tites and the matter of selecting a willing partner had al-ways been a most enjoyable part of the game. A journey of eight days lay ahead of them. Dalliance with a lovely woman would ease the despair in his heart. Or at least keep it at a distance until they reached England.
This one was a remarkedly beautiful woman. Incredibly long, dark lashes lay like unfurled ebony fans against her rice paper skin. They were exotic and at odds with her breeze-tossed blond tresses.
When her lashes lifted, it was to reveal eyes the shade of thickly wooded pine forests, mysterious, shadowed and intriguing. They widened in surprise, clouding with confusion, when she realized Garrett was staring.
“I hope I haven’t intruded on your thoughts or disturbed your solitude,” she said.
Her voice was cultured, her accent that of the western American coast rather than the eastern from which they sailed. There was a faint throaty purr in her tone that reminded him of a contented feline. Or a satisfied mistress.
‘’Not at all,” Garrett assured. “My official claim on this section of decking has yet to be filed at the assay office.”
Her amused smile started a pleasant tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“My appearance was timely then,” she said.
“Most, from my view,” Garrett agreed. “My own company was becoming a bit of a bore.” He nodded toward the hallooing of the crowd. “No one to see you off?”
She shrugged and stared out over the water again. “It’s doubtful they could even find me in the crush.”
Because she wore gloves he had no inkling as to whether she wore another man’s ring. He guessed that she was traveling without a male escort, for any man would be a fool to let this beauty out of his sight.
“Besides,” she added, her voice growing nostalgic, “I’m one of Trident’s hedonists. My grandfather was a ship’s captain and I seem to have inherited a love for the feel of the wind on my face and the taste of the sea on my tongue.”
She was a most unusual woman, Garrett mused.
There were many lovely ladies littering his past. His success in London had not been tied solely to financial transactions. Before he’d gone to Egypt in Sybil’s wake, he’d cut a bold swath through the ballrooms of the elite, seducing many a lovely guest or sultry hostess during the movements of a dance, rutting amongst many a cuckolded peer’s lace-edged sheets. There had been little pleasure in any of the affairs. He’d been labeled the black-hearted Blackhawk before his arrival and had merely played each scene as it was written.
None of the beauties in the past could be compared to the lovely, disheveled woman who dallied with him at the ship’s rail, not even Sybil.
The wind drew a long strand of her flaxen hair across her face. It brushed her cheek, teased her nose, caressed her mouth. When it eluded her grasp, Garrett took the opportunity to close the distance between them. Without asking her permission, he trapped the errant lock between his fingers.
It was the texture of finely spun silk threads and glistened with a sheen more akin to moonlight than sunlight. Her hand grazed against his when they both moved to secure the curl beneath her hat.
“Perhaps I’d better do this,” she said.
If they’d still been alone, he would have been tempted to rip her ridiculously large picture hat away, to free her pale golden tresses so that they entangled in the wind. Then he could bury his hands among the glorious strands and turn her face up to his. But they were no longer alone. The Nereid was nearing the mouth of the bay and other passengers were strolling the decks, invading what had once been his preserve alone.
His alluring companion tucked the tangled curls back beneath her hat. White, even teeth worried a corner of her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the crowds, Garrett nearly gave in to the compulsion to draw her close and kiss her. Savor her.
“There. Much better,” she announced brightly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir.”
“It was an honor,” he avowed, forcing himself to look away from her lips. “But the name isn’t Galahad, it’s Blackhawk. Garrett Blackhawk.”
Galahad. Wyn paused as the name sounded an unwelcome echo in her mind. Deegan had dredged up that particular knight of the Round Table in conjunction with his courting of Leonore Cronin. The Galahad of legend had been pure, noble and unselfish. That description hadn’t fit Deegan and she doubted the high-minded ideals would settle any easier on Mr. Blackhawk’s broad shoulders. At least he had disclaimed any resemblance to the knight.
He was attractive, too, although perhaps a bit forward. When his eyes had lingered on her lips, she’d felt breathless. There had been a singing in her blood, and an excited fluttering beneath her ribs that she hadn’t felt since Deegan Galloway had enthralled her senses.
Garrett Blackhawk made her feel that way with nothing more than a look.
What a frightening and thrilling sensation!
And how comforting to know that she no longer had money with which to tempt the man. No doubt he had recognized the expensive tailoring of her clothing and equated that with wealth, which she would have again if each voyage the Nereid made was profitable. That was in the future though. For now, she felt safe.
“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler, Mr. Black-hawk,” she declared. “I’m Winona Abbot.”
She offered Blackhawk her hand and was faintly disappointed when he didn’t play the gallant and place a kiss on her wrist or on the back of her gloved hand.
Instead his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and businesslike. It lingered long enough for her to experience another delightful chill of awareness.
“Winona,” he repeated, his voice appearing to caress each syllable of her name. “It’s quite unusual and beautiful. Like its owner.”
Wyn smiled to herself. Oh, yes, he had definitely staked a claim. There wasn’t a man alive who could deal with a woman honestly. They felt the need to flirt, to cajole, to compliment. Well, this time she would enjoy the experience but she wouldn’t be hurt when he was revealed as a cad.
If only she didn’t find these roguish bounders so attractive.
“In the language of the Sioux Indians, Winona translates to firstborn daughter,” she explained. “Or so I’ve been told. And what about you, Mr. Blackhawk?”
His smile was rakish but perhaps she only thought so because his coloring was so dark, his skin so warm, his eyes so bold. He was as tall as her brother Pierce, a fact that appealed to her. Due to her own above-average height, she often met men eye-to-eye. With Blackhawk her eyes were level with his lips. It had to